Throughout the years, I have emphasized ever so subtly my deep-seated dislike of sports. I have already made a full exposé on this topic, but what I left out was that occasionally even I, Mojca Pokrajculja, the sports hater per excellence, will succumb to enthusiastic displays of unwholesome frenzy towards athletic pursuits. In other words, it’s tennis season. In case you didn’t make the official page of Roland Garros your homepage during the last two weeks, or if your internet server has been down since Saturday, you might not know that History was made this weekend. First of all Serena won her staggering 31st Grand Slam Title (I was actually rooting for Sharapova, but Serena is just unbeatable) and then there was the Sunday men’s singles finale when a certain someone of Spanish descent won his eight Roland Garros title. I am constantly amazed at Nadal’s ability to make virtually impossible shots from difficult positions. Certain players simply defy the laws of gravity.

Even though the entire post could be easily made into an ode dedicated to the Majorcan force-of nature that is Rafael Nadal, I should stick to my agenda. Indeed, my plan was to talk about the final act of the tournament, but not in an annoyingly analyzing way (although I could probably pull that off as well). I watch Roland Garros almost every year. I’ve been a great Rafa fan for the last 8 years and for me this tournament represents the annual sports catharsis. For some inexplicable reason I get very invested with the players I like. Therefore the semi-final match between Nadal and Djokovic was almost torture to watch (but in a good way). It had more ups and downs than Mickey Rourke’s acting career. For Djokovic’s fans it was probably a tragedy in 5 sets. They’ll get over it. Anyway, my goal is not to discuss the virtuoso shots, the double faults or the match highlights (although, they are all available on youtube in HD – so go crazy, I know I have). What was not so glorious was all the drama, and if you watched the match, you know what I’m talking about.

Near the end of the second set the match was interrupted by a group of homophobic bigots. They were standing in the back row holding banners with abusive content. What has this to do with tennis, you ask? Nothing, and that is exactly the point. Members of an anti-gay group simply decided that the Sunday Grand Slam final was the appropriate time and place to promulgate their narrow views on humanity. Let me explain. Some weeks ago, France passed a law sanctioning the same-sex marriage; a fact that did solicit a standing ovation from me, but that wasn’t so well received by all French citizens. Anyway, people being people, some of them got a silly idea into their heads that homosexual relationships are wrong and sinful. Crazy, I know. Be it as it may, they decided to voice their displeasure during Nadal and Ferrer’s confrontation. Regardless of how one feels about their “cause”, sporting events are not platforms for mal-adjusted individuals to spread such verbal filth. It is not in the spirit of sportsmanship.

Eventually, the crowd booed them out (as they should) and they were asked to leave the scene. Just when things were getting back on track, another incident took place. This time a bare-chested man whom I dubbed the Idiot in a Plastic Mask (all copyrights reserved) wielding a torch in his right hand burst onto the central court to make a similar anti-gay statement. It was a scary moment. He seemed to have come out of nowhere and he appeared to be moving towards Nadal. Luckily, the security guard tackled him fairly quickly (talking about man on man action, ironically enough) and eventually he was removed from the court, but it took another minute or so for the smoke to literally blow over. I promised myself to stay above name-calling, but such an act of cowardice could only come from a beslobbering boil-brained lout (thank you Shakespeare Insult Kit). He put in danger not only the lives of the players, but also those of the spectators. This kind of behaviour has no place on a tennis or any other kind of court.

I really hope that the individual in question will be legally persecuted. It is a shame that sporting events must be polluted by such primitive provocations. These people have no respect for the game at all. To think that they spend hundreds of Euros to get the tickets just so that they could cause uproar during the match is ridiculous. I mean, there were people willing to prostitute themselves for those seats, or so I hear. In words of a randomly picked tennis enthusiast who commented on this act of cave-man mentality, “C’était lamentable.” Yes, Mr. Anonymous Commentator, it was. I only hope interruptions of this kind won’t become a regular feature of sporting events. It would be a real pity, wouldn’t it?

I’m fond of walking in the rain, especially at dusk when a thick fog descends over the city and the familiar landmarks become enveloped in a sombre veil of darkness. It is a time when the bleak reality melts away into a shadowy extravaganza. The urban cacophony is hushed by the soft thudding of raindrops against concrete. The trees stand still like the proud sentinels from the days of old, frozen into immobility as they keep silent watch over the city. Their glossy leaves dripping with rainwater only accentuate the delicious drowsiness hanging in the air. As the drops slowly hit the ground they splash into a myriad of perfect watery fragments. The wet grounds reverberate with soft drumming music through the stillness of the impending nightfall. The gentle tapping of rain on my umbrella answers their rhythmic falling and lulls me into a walking sleep. Pitter-patter, pitter-patter …

That is how I experience rain, at least in my romantically over-stimulated mind. In order for this “magic” to take place one very important condition needs to be fulfilled – namely, the presence of an umbrella. It doesn’t have to be new, borrowed or blue. As long as the object in question satisfies the usage requirements stipulated in section 3 Paragraph (5) of the Act No. XLIX of Parasol Proprietor Code, the umbrella-carrying community will raise no objections.

One umbrella per person, just like God intended it.

However, the problem arises when a person known to have recently been in full possession of a brolly (pardon my colloquial English) suddenly finds herself without it. We’ve all been there and we all know what it feels like to be the unlucky victim of umbrella theft. The notorious Parasol Pilferer is a man (or woman) with less moral fibre than Mr. Hyde. The worst thing is that he probably looks purer than the driven snow. Statistically speaking, he may even be a person you know.

Regardless of any possible acquaintance with this person, I loathe the misbegotten kleptomaniac filth that deprives people of their umbrellas. In what kind of world is it acceptable to dispossess a person of their rainwear? To me, another man’s umbrella is sacred. I may look at it, I might even want to touch it, but under no circumstances will I resort to grab-and-run tactics. That is not how my mama taught me. Stealing umbrellas is frowned upon by the polite society and me and will act as a gateway to heavier crimes. Today you may steal an umbrella, tomorrow you’ll be forging bank cheques and stealing people’s identities (any parallels with Frank Abagnale’s life are purely accidental). It’s a vicious circle.

My sentiments exactly.

Since I have no retribution strategy, people of my acquaintance have privileged me with their worldly advice. Most of them subscribe to the belief that once an umbrella has been stolen from you, you’re entitled to another person’s umbrella. That is out of the question. Blame it on my good breeding and strong sense of justice, but I shy from all acts of criminal nature, except perhaps loitering in public places (but it’s all done with a great deal of elegance and style), so please don’t feel uneasy on that account.

Clearly, I feel very strongly about umbrellas. They have served humankind well. In times of tempest, their popularity skyrockets, making them even more coveted than Legolas’ hairpins at a Lord of the Rings convention. I, for one, take my umbrella everywhere I go and have probably single-handedly raised it to the status of a must-have accessory. It goes without mentioning that to an imaginative mind umbrella can serve as a magic wand (remember Hagrid), a club when you’re being attacked by a pigeon (it could happen) and as the ultimate flying contraption (didn’t you people watch Marry Poppins?). Therefore, the anger and resentment directed against umbrella thieves are perfectly justifiable.

To the heartless lowlifes who steal (and will continue stealing) umbrellas, I say this:

Don’t be surprised if sometime, somewhere, someplace when you least expect it, someone steps up to you and says, busted! You’re on the Umbrella Thief’s Most Wanted List and it’s pay-back time!

All in all, these people need to be stopped. By stealing other people’s portable property, they have forfeited the right to carry umbrellas themselves. The only person exempt from this list is Abelard Took who had the unfortunate habit of borrowing other hobbits’ umbrellas. Luckily, Bilbo was a far better sport than I am and left him an umbrella “for his very own” (Tolkien 2008, p. 47). I would let him get wet and ruin his coat. As you can see, events of this kind made a bitter woman out of me. You know what they say, once an umbrella-theft victim, always an umbrella-theft victim. Fight it while you still can.